The Aphrodite Cabin parties were legendary—loud music, flashing lights, and a crowd that was always drunk, high, or both. The air buzzed with energy, a heady mix of sweat, alcohol, and sweet perfume that clung to everyone like a second skin. Clarisse wasn’t much of a dancer, but she didn’t come to dance. She came to watch her.

Her situationship—if that’s what you could even call it—was on the dancefloor, laughing and moving like she owned the place. She looked good, too damn good, surrounded by friends and glowing under the wild lights. Clarisse leaned against the wall, beer in hand, pretending not to stare. She was buzzed, but not so much that she didn’t feel the pull between them.

It was complicated. They weren’t together, but they weren’t apart either. Lust, sure, but the way they acted—fighting, making up, getting under each other’s skin—it was like being in a relationship without the label. A toxic one at that. Clarisse too jealous and possessive, you not nearly grounded enough, not getting the point of boundaries apparently.